


Preventative Medicine

by squidnapped



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Drugs, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexually Transmitted Diseases, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:03:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3828223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidnapped/pseuds/squidnapped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael made Trevor a promise back in North Yankton. After the events of the game, Trevor comes to collect. Of course, there's a catch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_///   North Yankton, 15 years ago—   ///_

 

“Come on, baby… come on, yeah, wider.”

Trevor’s eyebrows are screwed tightly together in frustrated concentration. His knees ache from kneeling on the cracked tile of the truckstop bathroom in a puddle of mystery water, which has now fully soaked its way into the fabric of his pants. He tries to relax his mouth around Michael’s thick cock, going limp as Michael grabs his skull and fucks deeper into his throat.

“God _damn_ y’all take long shits! Let’s get this thing started already,” Brad calls from outside, and they both freeze, waiting for the sound of the turning door handle, but it doesn’t come. Mercifully he doesn’t try to come in. There’d be nothing stopping him, or anyone, from walking in on them. “Told y’all not to eat those hot dogs,” they hear him mutter, followed by the sounds of his boots crunching away on the salted pavement.

Michael is already on the edge, and the thrill of getting caught pushes the repressed bastard right on over. Trevor pulls his lips off him just in time to get a lode right in his mustache as Michael shivers and groans through his release. Trevor grabs onto the paper towel dispenser (which is also wet… why the fuck is every surface in this goddamn bathroom wet?) and uses it to haul himself to his feet, since Michael makes no move to help him up. He wipes his mouth with one hand and reaches down to grope at his own erection with the other. He waggles his eyebrows at Michael.

“Your turn, lover.”

Michael’s eyes dart away—he can’t seem to look Trevor in the eye recently—as he tucks himself back into his pants. He glances nervously at the door and at the watch on his wrist.

“I don’t know, T. Brad’s right, we should get going.”

A surge of anger rises up Trevor’s throat like bile, turning the previously pleasant taste of Michael’s precum into ash.

“What the _fuck_?” Trevor spits, and shoves Michael hard, sending him stumbling backward against the sink. “I just got on my knees in a truckstop bathroom for you, motherfucker, and now you can’t even return the favor?”

Michael still can’t look at him, so Trevor crowds him so that Michael’s actually leaning backward over the sink, filling his vision so that he has no choice but to meet his eyes. Trevor vaguely registers that he’s rubbing himself against Michael’s thigh, his cock (as usual) undermining his attempts to intimidate his thickset companion. 

Finally Michael sighs and places a hand on Trevor’s neck, bringing their foreheads gently together. This is an ancient and true tactic of calming Trevor down, as his breath comes in angry spurts like a dragon. It’s gentle, which is unexpected—Michael hasn’t been gentle with Trevor in a long time, and Trevor was fully expecting to trade blows—which only increases its efficacy.

“Listen Trev,” Michael says, in a voice not unlike the one he uses with his kids, “we gotta go now, but I _promise_ I’ll make it up to you later.”

“Oh yeah, sure,” Trevor huffs against Michael’s cheek. “A couple dry tugs in a motel room later, that’s what I’ll get.” He knows he’s being petulant but he doesn’t care. He misses this. He misses Michael.

“No, T, listen… after today, things are gonna change. I’m gonna… I’ll let you…” Michael’s face flushes, deepening the pink already there from his earlier arousal. Trevor can feel the heat rising from his cheeks and Trevor’s stomach bottoms out with lust.

“Yeah? Are you serious?” Trevor practically growls, his wide eyes searching Michael’s face for signs that he’s fucking with him, that he’s lying, joking, anything. Because he can’t possibly mean— 

“Yeah,” Michael says, wincing a little. “I’m serious. We just gotta pull this job. Then… Then everything will be different.”

Trevor doesn’t know what he means by that, but he lets it go in favor of chasing down this dream. “When? _When?_ ” Trevor asks, believing him despite himself, leaning into Michael’s grasp like a dog leans his head into his master’s hand.

“Tonight,” Michael whispers, his thumb drawing circles in the soft, oily hair above Trevor’s ear.

Trevor’s mouth goes dry as he imagines it, and Michael lets him, tolerating their nearness for an uncharacteristically long time. In Trevor’s mind he sees a fantasy he’s held for decades: Michael, spread out on his stomach on motel room sheets. Michael on his hands and knees, his ass spread wide… They’ve been at it for a decade now, and throughout that time Michael has made it very clear that he is _unfuckable_. Closed for business. _Alphas don’t get fucked_ , Michael had growled into his ear the one night Trevor had suggested it, right before fucking Trevor dry over a dumpster to prove his own inviolable masculinity. Trevor had wanted to kill him then for being such a horrible old cliche, so terrified of vulnerability.

Especially since he’d hooked up with Amanda (ten years and two kids later, and Trevor still can’t say the word married, even to himself… it’s just an extremely long period of hooking up, no different from Michael and himself) and Michael had all but stopped wanting Trevor at all. It’s been months since he’s even been _allowed_ to _jerk Michael off_ , so today when their eyes met in the rearview mirror on the way to the job, Trevor couldn’t pull over fast enough.

Finally Michael brings Trevor’s glassy-eyed face to his and does another uncharacteristic thing—he kisses him. Trevor grunts as Michael sweeps his own precum from the back of Trevor’s throat with his tongue, takes it into his own mouth and they trade it for a brief, almost tender moment.

And then Michael is pulling away, patting Trevor awkwardly on the neck, and pushing past him. Trevor washes his hands in the sink just to give himself a second to get collected, then follows him out into the cold North Yankton air. Its finally stopped snowing, and the world is blanketed with a thick coating of white.

“Get in the car, asshole, we got a bank to rob!” Brad yells from behind the wheel, and Michael smiles at him, and Trevor decides to believe Michael, that things are going to be different after today.

He doesn’t know how right he is.

 

_///   Now—   ///_

 

Trevor grinds his filthy boot into Michael’s chest. He’s tracked mud in through Michael’s bedroom window and all over Michael’s expensive carpet, and he takes extreme satisfaction in the brown cleat marks now staining Michael’s crisp white shirt. He’s all dressed up, probably on the way to a _premiere_ or something, and in fact he can now faintly hear Amanda calling impatiently from downstairs about a limo.

“Be right there, sweetie,” Michael calls hoarsely, his furious eyes never leaving Trevor’s. He’s propped up on his elbows, trying to look as dangerous as possible from his prone position. His voice comes out in a low growl.

“What the fuck do you want, Trevor.”

“What do I want?” Trevor spits, shifting all his weight onto the foot on Michael’s chest as he leans in, his eyes bloodshot from a cocktail of grain alcohol, various uppers, and a decade of lonely fury. “I want what was promised, princess.”

He can see the wheels turning in Michael’s head, spinning back through thousands of lies and unkept promises to see which one he could possibly be referring to. He lights on one.

“Is this about the fucking money? T, I told you already, you can have my share.” [1]

“I don’t want your fucking money!” Trevor roars, and Michael shushes him frantically, his ears straining for the sounds of his family below. Trevor pauses to listen too, and the fat snake below him uses the opportunity of his divided attention to lever his foot off, sending Trevor stumbling backward against the wall. Michael is on his feet in an instant, pinning the unbalanced addict with one thick hand over his mouth.

“Michael? Honey, are you okay?” Amanda calls from the bottom of the stairs.

Michael glares at Trevor, his mouth in a thin, angry line, and motions for him to wait while he goes to the bedroom door. He cracks it and calls down to her.

“Yeah, listen sweetie you and the kids go on ahead. I’ll catch up with you. I uh… I gotta change, I ripped the seat of my pants.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she calls. “That’s the last straw, Michael, we are going on that diet starting tomorrow.” Michael is perfectly still as he listens to the angry click of her heels as she exits the house, and the crunch of the limo’s tires on the asphalt as it backs out of the driveway. With a relieved sigh, he closes the door, only to be slammed face first against it with Trevor’s full weight.

“Your ass,” Trevor whispers into Michael’s ear, his acrid breath spilling over Michael’s face.

“What?” Michael spits, and tries to turn his head to look at him with the full force of his incredulity.

“I. Want. Your. Ass,” Trevor enunciates, and grinds his growing hard-on against Michael’s back. He sees realization dawn on Michael’s face, sending it that delicious pink color he remembers. The color is different now, of course—it has to fight with Michael’s horrible tan—but Trevor recognizes it like an old lover.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Michael says, trying to buck Trevor off. It just increases the friction between them, though, and Trevor tightens his grip on Michael’s arms, pressing his hardening length between Michael’s spread cheeks.

“‘Fraid not, sugar,” Trevor breathes, and laughs filthily to himself. Michael knocks his own skull against the door in utter frustration, clearly trying to mask his own discomfort.

“Okay, listen T,” Michael says, and his voice has taken on that diplomatic quality he uses when he’s trying to get Trevor to be reasonable. It’s a foregone conclusion, and he should know it, as Trevor grunts and ruts against his back, licking his lips in anticipation, but Michael is obviously going to try it anyway.

“Just let me up and I’ll… I’ll suck you off. Just get a condom out of my dresser and I’ll do it right here, right now.”

“No, no no no no no,” Trevor chuckles. “No dice, sugar tits. I’m going to _fuck_ you, cowboy. Right here, _right now_. You don’t get to just come back from the dead and pretend like you never promised me anything. With God as my witness, I will not rest until my dick is nestled happily in your _corpse ass_ where it fucking belongs.” Trevor drives home his intentions with savage ruts at key points in his threat. Then something dawns on him, and he scrunches up his nose in incredulity.

“Wait, what do you mean condom? Why do you need a condom for a measly fucking blowjob?”

“Because I don’t know what kind of diseases you’ve got, you moron!” Michael roars, and manages to shake himself loose from Trevor’s grasp. Instead of bolting he leans back against the door, panting, his white shirt filthy and disheveled, his eyes full of loathing and a delicious tinge of fear.

Trevor puts his hands on his hips and stares Michael down in confused rage. “Well that’s never stopped you before!”

“Yeah because _that_ was _before!_ ” Michael yells, throwing his arms in the air and pushing past Trevor. He pulls at the buttons on his collar, starting to change his shirt.

“Listen. I’ve seen the kind of chicks in your trailer park. I’ve seen… Wade. I know the kind of holes you put your dick into these days, and I don’t want to share anything with any of them, alright?”

“You talk this way to all the hookers you fuck, Mr. High-and-Mighty?”

“No, but I use a fuckin’ condom, don’t I?” Michael retorts, his shirt now fully unbuttoned and falling draped around his paunchy middle, before he disappears into his closet.

“Besides,” comes his voice as he rummages through his clothes, “the girls are from a reputable service. They’re regularly tested.”

Somehow Michael has gotten control of this situation, like always, and Trevor can’t really figure out how but now his erection is flagging and his mind is fully consumed by the enigma that is their current conversation. One of the problems with a mind as burnt out as his, it’s kinda hard to keep its attention. He crosses his arms over his chest and scratches at his chin as he ponders this new information.

“Tested? Like, they go to school?”

Michael is quiet for a moment, and then Trevor hears the slap of his hand coming up to cover his face.

“No, genius. STD testing. Of course you’ve never heard of it.”

“I’ve heard of it! I lived through the fuckin’ 80’s too, you know,” Trevor calls back petulantly, sitting down on the bed. Something in his metabolism has shifted, and the colors of the room are pulsating in a disorienting way, confusing his thoughts. He lies down, enjoying the feel of the soft comforter against his sunburnt arms.

“In fact,” Michael sniffs, and Trevor closes his eyes and imagines him adjusting his bowtie in the mirror, “I’m not comfortable doing anything with you until you get tested yourself.”

“You’re not comfortable?” Trevor tries to get up to show him just how uncomfortable he can make him but feels like he’s gonna puke, so he lays back down, crossing his hands over his belly. “I’ll show you uncomfortable,” he mutters, but he doubts Michael hears him.

Michael emerges from the closet. “How do I look?”

Trevor cracks open one eye, his mouth drawn down into a sour frown, and flips him the bird. He looks fucking amazing, but he sure as hell doesn’t need to know that. Michael checks his watch and looks at the door, and Trevor fully expects him to book it, but instead he comes and sits beside him on the bed, his weight jostling Trevor’s queasy stomach.

They sit in silence for a minute. Trevor wants nothing more than to lunge for Michael and revenge-fuck him into the mattress, willing or not, diseased or not, but his body is less than cooperative. He settles for listening to Michael breathe, closing his eyes again to stop the room from spinning quite so much.

It’s not really how he imagined it would go a half hour ago, when he was psyching himself up with various chemicals to come in here and take what was his. Neither of them had even broached the topic of sex since Michael had resurrected himself. It had been conspicuously absent from all of their dealings up to this point, and Trevor had been trying—really trying—to keep it that way. Best to leave that version of Michael buried, he’d thought. But now that the topic is broken, there seems to be a kind of tension lifted from the air between them. Like they’ve already fucked, and they’re sitting there sharing a cigarette. Even though they haven’t—they really haven’t, as his neglected cock reminds him.

“So before you’ll let me under your chastity belt,” Trevor mutters, “I have to go to a fucking clinic and get my dick touched my some pervert doctor to prove I don’t have SUV’s. I have to give you a piece of paper saying I’m good enough before you grant me entrance to your perfect temple of an asshole.”

“Yeah,” Michael laughs, and Trevor can feel him shaking his head. “Something like that.”

Michael hauls himself off the bed and makes a phone call.

“Consuela? Yeah. I need you to make a quick house call. A uh… a wild animal got in and dirtied up my bedroom, and I need it cleaned before Senora De Santa gets back tonight. Yeah. And the laundry, too. Gracias, Consuela, I owe you one.”

Michael pockets his phone and addresses Trevor, still prone on the bed. “Okay T, you have about twenty-five minutes to get out of my house before the maid gets here. I trust you’ll do the right thing and beat it without giving her any trouble.”

Trevor makes wordless grunts of acknowledgement and disdain, and Michael slips out the bedroom door without another word. The front door barely slams shut before Trevor tips himself over the side of the bed and pukes all over the carpet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Referring to a conversation Michael and Trevor have post-game, in which Michael offers to give Trevor all the money from the last job to make reparations for fucking him over.
> 
>  
> 
> Y'all I don't even know. I think I think too much about the nitty gritty of porn, and with the HD re-release of GTA V I find myself preoccupied with the sheer number of sores on Trevor's body and I imagine Michael does too. So here, let me completely de-sexify everything sexy about this pairing (of which there is already nothing because they're gross, but whatever). I guess I'm attempting to inject some realism into this fake videogame pairing's fake sex life, because I have Massive Problems, and probably make everyone even more OOC in the process. You're welcome?!?!??!?!?!??!?!?!?
> 
> Right now I'm envisioning this as a three chapter thing that I want to get finished this week. Thank you to everyone who has ever left a comment or encouraged me in any way. I hope you don't regret it too much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael receives a series of disturbing news.

Michael doesn’t hear anything from Trevor for a few days, and figures he’s in the clear. He’s pretty impressed with himself, actually. An STD test—that’s just inspired. Trevor’s inability to focus on tasks that aren’t felony offenses, paired with his pathological hatred of civilization, are surely enough to keep him off Michael’s back (no pun intended—in fact, pun actively despised). He’s seen Trevor go to the hospital when mortally wounded, but that’s about it. Trevor’s always been weird about doctors. Even back in North Yankton, Michael could never get him in to see a doctor unless he was already unconscious.

So making Trevor go in for a thorough examination before he’ll fuck him really is the perfect solution. Even beside the fact that there’s no way in hell Trevor could be clean and STD-free after all these years, Michael is sure that nothing—and surely not the promise of Michael’s puffy white ass—could get Trevor to the doctor.

Content with this knowledge, he almost forgets about their little encounter. For a few days.

 

\---

 

It’s about one in the afternoon when Michael’s phone starts to buzz. He’s “meditating” beside the pool—code for catching a nap in corpse pose while also participating in Amanda’s mandatory yoga rituals. Shavasana is admittedly his favorite part of yoga—the part where he gets to stop sweating like an asshole and just lie down for a while.  He cracks one eye open to look at his phone skittering around on the concrete from the intermittent vibrations. Casting a look back at Amanda and seeing her still in her trance, he sneakily slides it close enough to look at the caller ID.

It’s an unknown number, which these days never seems to bode well. Michael remembers the day when all numbers were unknown numbers, in that you didn’t know who was calling until you picked up the fucking phone. Now the idea that a stranger could be trying to contact you was an affront, or at least an annoyance, reserved for telemarketers and bomb threat callers.

Still, he’s bored, the idea of sitting another minute with just his thoughts seeming unbearable, no matter how crucial it is to the sustaining of his marriage. He picks up his phone and is about to accept the call when he hears the sudden intake of breath to his right that means Amanda is about to let him have it.

“I’m just putting it on silent,” he says defensively, before she even has to say a word. He sends the call through to voicemail and settles back in for another five minutes of silent meditation and mutual simmering irritation.

After yoga comes the obligatory fight, then the conciliatory fuck, so it’s after dinner when Michael remembers the phone call. He steps outside with a tumbler of whiskey while the family catches up on “Rehab Island” and checks his messages.

“Hello, this is Dr. Thompson’s office,” reports an older man’s voice with a pronounced nasal whine, “I’m calling Mr. De Santa in regards to the medical records of Mr. Philips. I was instructed to let you know that his tests have all come in negative. He is completely free of any sexually transmitted diseases.”

Michael’s intestines twist into a tight fist, and he holds his breath as the doctor continues. 

There is some rustling on the line, as it sounds like the phone is being jostled around. Then the voice comes back on, this time distinctly less nasally.

“Uh, yes,” more rustling, some angry whispering, and then the voice is nasal again, “Mr. Philips is clean as a whistle. And… I should say that his... organ... is one of the finest I’ve ever had the privilege to handle in my thirty years as a doctor. Aw jeez Trev do I have to say that? I-I mean, yes, what a fine… penis. Long and—t-thick. Like two eCola cans stacked on top of each other. Well anyway, that’s the official doctor report. Bye!”

Michael deletes the message, then briefly considers throwing his phone in the swimming pool and being done with it. Then he considers just throwing himself in there for good measure. Instead he texts Trevor.

“‘Two eCola cans’? You know I’ve actually seen your dick, right? Also tell Ron not to quit his day job anytime soon. I don’t have much hope for his acting career." 

Michael downs his glass of whiskey and joins the rest of the family on the couch. He checks his phone during the commercials, but Trevor doesn’t respond. He eventually falls asleep in front of the TV during reruns of Kung Fu Rainbow Lazerforce. No one makes any attempt to move him.

 

\---

 

It’s another two weeks before Michael hears from Trevor again.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Michael asks in an angry, exaggerated whisper, and whips his head around the front door frame to check for any witnesses—even though the privacy hedge would easily prevent any nosy neighbor eyes. It’s three in the afternoon, and luckily the rest of the family happens to be out at the pier. Not that Trevor had known that, of course, showing up out of the blue like this. Unless he’d been casing the house… Michael shakes that disturbing thought right out of his head. 

“It didn’t occur to you to, I don’t know, text ahead? Amanda would fucking kill you if she saw you here. Not to mention whatever she’d do to me.” Michael hurries Trevor in and closes the front door behind them.

Trevor doesn’t say anything in response—just holds up the grubby envelope in his hands and raises his eyebrows, a smug smile on his face.

“Let me see that,” Michael snarls and snatches the envelope from Trevor’s hands. Trevor puts his hands up, walks backward a few paces into the foyer.

The envelope is already open, its ripped edges yellowed with Trevor’s grubby fingerprints. Michael shoots Trevor a skeptical look.

“What, I don’t have the right to open my own mail?” Trevor retorts.

Michael removes the contents of the envelope, a bunch of official-looking documents folded in thirds. His stomach sinks as he skims the top of the first page and sees the name and address of a local clinic he recognizes. He folds the top back down and takes a deep breath. He can feel Trevor’s eyes on him, wary and hungry like a feral dog.

“I’m gonna need a drink,” Michael sighs, and walks into the kitchen to fix himself a quick drink. He’s going to need to get started with the liquid courage now if this is going like he fears it might. He also needs to buy himself some more thinking time, to find a way out of this.

He doesn’t hear Trevor come up behind him, just feels his rough palms slide up under the bottom of his tank top to squeeze lightly at his belly. Michael jerks his elbow back hard, forcing Trevor to stumble a few inches away, and levels him with a glare.

“Hey,” he says, his voice high and tight, “we ain’t there yet.”

Trevor returns a serial killer smile, rubbing his crotch through his filthy sweat pants. 

“Keep reading, sugar tits. We will be.”

Michael downs his two fingers of whiskey, pours himself another glass, and unfolds the paper again. His eyes dance across the page, reading the results of test after test after test. It’s all in the kind of jargon that lab results use, but the one word that Michael does understand seems to come at the end of every line.

Negative.

As Michael reads, he barely registers Trevor reinsinuating himself into his personal space. Trevor lines his hips up behind Michael’s, his hands placed lightly on his sides, and leans his sunburnt head in to inhale at Michael’s hairline. Michael just keeps reading, his movements becoming more frantic as he flips pages over to try and find something, anything, as a way out. His growing fear is embodied in the hardening length he feels pressed against his back, the fingers gripping slowly harder and harder into his hips.

“Satisfied yet?” Trevor growls into Michael’s ear, while his right hand starts to drift down over the front of Michael’s shorts.

Michael lets out a barking laugh as he finishes the last page, and his body relaxes a little back into Trevor’s embrace. He heaves a long sigh.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m satisfied. Thanks for easing my mind, T. I honestly can’t believe it, but you’re clean.”

“Yeah, I know,” Trevor grunts, his tone somewhere between smug and irritated.

“Not a single STD,” Michael repeats, and takes another sip of his whiskey, finishing it off with a happy sigh. “Of course, you’ll have to forgive me for not offering you a drink. But you shouldn’t really be drinking, in your condition.”

Trevor’s freezes, then pulls back a few inches so he can look at Michael in wary confusion. 

“My condition?”

“Yeah, your condition,” Michael says, and points to a line on the last page. Trevor snatches the paper out of Michael’s hands and squints at it angrily. Michael grins as the look of comprehension dawns on Trevor's face.

“Mazel tov! Who’s the lucky father? Ron? Or Wade, is it Wade? Whichever one it is, I’m sure he’ll help you take care of the baby.”

Trevor lets out a sound like what Michael imagines an enraged bull moose must sound like. Michael, meanwhile, doubles over in laughter, as Trevor stomps around the kitchen gesticulating. 

“Fucking Ron, he told me these documents were good to go! I paid that bitch three hundred dollars for these! When I see her again, I’m going to kill her and her fucking abortion-in-waiting!” 

Trevor rips the stack of documents into pieces, scattering them across the kitchen floor. Michael can barely breathe from laughter, his hands on his knees as Trevor rages. Then, suddenly, he’s silent. The hackles on the back of Michael’s neck raise. He rises to his full height, and spying a knife on the counter, slides it off the counter and into his hand. Then he turns to face Trevor, tucking the knife up behind his back.

From his current position, Trevor is backlit by the setting sun streaming sideways through the windows. Michael’s eyes hurt from the light and he’s at a clear disadvantage. But even as a shadow Michael can tell that Trevor is seething; there’s murder and hurt and something much, much darker in his eyes. Michael readjusts his grip on the knife between his shoulder blades, and says in a low voice,

“It’s time for you to go home, Trevor.” 

Trevor says nothing for a few more terrifying seconds, then turns and walks through the french doors. Michael watches him jump the hedge, his body still thrumming with adrenaline, before he locks the door.

Michael cleans up the kitchen just in time for the rest of the family to get home. They eat the takeout Amanda’s brought in, then watch TV and go to bed. Michael wakes up three times in the middle of the night, and each time checks to make sure every door is locked, and every chamber in his gun is filled.

 

\---

 

Michael is at the golf club practicing his swing when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. Checking it with one hand, he grins around his cigar, Franklin’s number reflecting off his aviator sunglasses. They don’t see each other as much now that they’re laying low, and he can honestly say that’s his least favorite part of his second retirement. 

“Yo, Franklin! How’s it hangin?”

“‘How’s it hangin’? You gotta get your lingo updated, dog.” 

“Oh yeah?” Michael asks, pinning his phone under his ear so he can go back to swinging. “And what exactly should I be saying?”

“I don’t know, you could try ‘sup? That would put you at least two decades closer to the present moment.”

“Ahh, I don’t know.”

“Anyway, I’m calling about Trevor. Have you seen him recently?”

Michael stops mid-swing as their recent encounter comes flooding back to him. A sinking feeling in his stomach, he takes the phone back in his hand.

“Yeah, about a week ago. Why?”

“Maybe ‘cause I opened my door this morning to a bucket full of blood on my doorstep, with a note pinned to it that said ‘Take this to the doctor and tell me what he says. Love, T.’”

Michael winces. 

“I tried calling him but he didn’t pick up. I don’t even know what I’d say—other than ‘yo dog, don’t leave your bodily fluids at my house.’ I figured I’d try you. Is he sick or something?" 

“No sicker than usual,” Michael sighs. “I’ll take care of it. I’m sure he’s fine.”

There’s a pause, and Michael can hear the concern in Franklin’s voice when he comes back in low and quiet.

“It’s a lot of blood, Mike.”

Michael sighs and wipes the sweat off his forehead. Then he swears a few times. Then he says again, firmer, “I said, I’ll take care of it. Thanks, Frank.”

“Hey yo but what am I s’pose to do with—”

Michael hangs up, his mind already whirring too fast to heed Franklin’s plea, and thumbs the second number on his speed dial. Trevor has barely picked up the phone before Michael is roaring,

“Leave Franklin outta this you sick fuck! He ain’t a nurse! What the fuck is wrong with you? Go! To! The Fucking! Doctor!”

There’s just the sound of ragged breathing on the other end, and then “Fuck you Michael,” weakly spat.

Michael threads his hand into his hair and pulls on it ‘til it hurts, an anxious tic from his youth. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, chews on his lip, practically gnashes his teeth. Then something gives.

“Where are you,” he snarls into the phone.

 “I said… fuck-”

Michael hangs up before Trevor finishes his whispered threat and stalks back to his cart. His golf club bangs angrily against the metal pole as he throws it in.

 

\---

 

An hour later, Michael pulls up outside Trevor’s trailer. Ron is standing on the porch chewing on his nails. As soon as he sees Michael he rushes over to him, his flip flops slapping down the wooden steps.

“Oh! Oh! Mr. De Santa, thank god you’re here! He won’t let us in, and, well…” he gestures to the trail of blood leading through the dusty yard up into the aluminum house. 

Michael frowns at the blood and pushes past Ron, taking the stairs in one jump. When he gets to the trailer door he raps on it sharply with his knuckles, before calling,

“Trevor, you got ‘til three and I’m coming in. And you better not be blowing some hobo when I come in, either.”

Silence.

Michael jiggles the handle a few times, then presses his shoulder to the door. The rickety door only takes a few shoves before it buckles inward in a cloud of dust and asbestos.

Waving the cloud away, Michael steps forward through the door and almost slips on the pool of blood on the kitchen tile. A few feet away is Trevor, collapsed on the floor with his back against the couch. There’s a makeshift tourniquet around his bicep, but it’s clear that it hasn’t been doing its job. Paper towels caked in dried blood are stuck to his arm, the discarded cardboard roll lying in another pool of dried blood.

Michael squats over Trevor and slaps him, hard. Drool drips out of Trevor’s mouth and he cracks his eyes open to look at Michael. He smiles stupidly.

 "Didn’t know how much… they’d need… got impatient. Musta hit a artery, or… or something…” he trails off, his attention wandering.

Michael sighs and pushes his sunglasses up onto his forehead. Then he leans forward to place his shoulder under Trevor’s armpit and raise him to his feet.

“Come on, asshole,” he mutters as he hauls the nearly-unconscious Trevor to his feet. 

“Let’s go to the fucking doctor."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Another chapter down. Now I'm thinking this might be a four chapter story, depending on a few decisions I have yet to make. I just realized it's also the longest solo story I've written... and it's about STDs... because of course it is... leave it to me to be the one motherfucker in the universe who wants to deal with STDs in their porn...
> 
> I hope you're enjoying the story... feedback is as always really really appreciated :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevor wakes up in an unpleasant place. Michael performs a modern experiment in masculinity.

Trevor hates a lot of things. He hates hipsters, for one. He hates Michael, most of all, spit on his grave and fuck him up the urethra with a rusty rail spike. He hates hypocrites (see: Michael), fathers (his own most of all, but also Michael), cowards and cheats (Michael and Michael). But Trevor really, really hates hospitals.

Hospitals remind Trevor of prison. And not the fun parts of prison—the makeshift shivs and gang warfare and riots and anal sex parts. More like the lack of daylight or fresh air, that smell of cheap cleaner that just barely fails to mask the stench of illness and misery that coats every surface of the place. The army of uniformed zombies programmed to scream at him whenever he puts a toe out of line.

Hospitals remind Trevor of the parts of prison where he had to sit in a tiny, well-guarded room and be scrutinized by shrinks as they scribbled words on pieces of paper that were supposed to be the truth about him. Tests and riddles and questions about his _mother_ and the feeling of being psychically flayed, laid bare and bleeding under a light too bright to make out who was behind it. Trevor hates the idea that someone else knows more about him than he does, that someone could apply some dusty theory to his actions and suddenly be able to predict them. That he could be reduced to some archetype, a handful of bullet points in an overpriced college textbook is a fear that gnaws at his extremities like the cold of a North Yankton winter.

So when his eyelids flutter open and he realizes he’s in one, you’ll understand if he _gets a little angry_.

Trevor begins ripping all the little tubes and suckers from his body, sending the machines surrounding him into a beeping panic. He’s wobbling to his feet, holding onto a slim pole with a bag of blood hanging off it for balance, when a small, sweaty woman scurries into the room trailing a cloud of baby powder and hand sanitizer.

“Stop, stop! What the hell do you think you’re doing!” she croaks, waving her little clipboard in frustration. Her voice sounds like she’s a three pack a day smoker with a sideline as a thrash metal lead singer. Her hair is a little halo of auburn fuzz perched atop her head. She reminds him a little of Patricia, _sans_ warmth and sex appeal.

“Getting out of here. I’m cured, I’m going home. Where are my clothes?” he barks, glaring around the room.

“Oh, those went out with the hazardous waste. There were… agents… detected… stains… really, it was safer for the community if they were properly disposed of.”

Trevor lets out a noise of frustration and pinches hard at the migraine forming between his eyes.

“Fine. I’ll just wear these home.”

He gestures down at the flimsy hospital gown and glares. A stray breeze from the blasting AC unit wafts the back flaps of the dress open, exposing his bare ass to the back of the room. The woman narrows her eyeshadow-encrusted eyes, and they enact a silent battle of wills for a long moment.

“Fine,” replies the nurse finally, having decided she isn’t paid nearly enough for this shit. “It’s your funeral. I’ll inform Dr. Ospino that you don’t want the physical examination after all—lucky for him. You’ll be getting your lab results from the tests we already performed in the mail in a few weeks. Have a nice life,” she spits, and whirls to exit the room.

Trevor reckons he’d still a little dizzy because there’s a lot there that he doesn’t quite comprehend. He shuffles after her a few paces.

“Slow down—my what?”

She stops in the doorway and turns to regard him frostily.

“Lab results. For your blood tests. Your partner said you wanted them done, and we took the liberty of sampling your blood when you were asleep. It was kind of hard not to sample, actually, as it was everywhere.”

“Uh, I have some concerns about the extraction of my physical property, _my blood_ , while I’m asleep and without my consent and also-hold-on did you say my _partner?_ ”

The woman flushes lightly, clutching her clipboard closer to her chest.

“Yes... Michael, right? Lucky you—what a charmer. Like something out of an old movie.” She has the nerve to sigh.

“He is not my partner,” Trevor growls, and his knees start to wobble with pure rage so he’s forced to sit back on the hospital bed.

She isn’t listening. “He went through a lot of trouble on your behalf to arrange this, so the least you can do is wait and receive your exam before you barrel out of here. I’ll be back with the doctor.”

“He’s not my partner,” Trevor is still muttering as she squeaks off down the hall. That _fat fuck_. Why would he do this? Trevor’s head swims, still light from the blood loss. Trevor had been starting to think that this whole STD thing was another of Michael’s tricks to try to keep him off his back. Michael doesn't actually give a shit whether or not Trevor has the clap—he's just counting on Trevor’s doctor aversion to outweigh his lust. It's all been just one pointless hoop in a series that will inevitably get extended longer and longer, Michael coming up with excuse after excuse so as not to have to bear being touched by Trevor ever again.

...But if that's so, then _why_ has he actually ordered the test? Is he so smug— _yes_ , Trevor nods to himself,  _he is_ —does he just think there's no doubt that Trevor is disease-ridden? That this little piece of paper could be the final nail in the coffin for that long-ago part of their lives? Or does some part of Michael think there could be a different outcome?

Trevor’s hospital gown is parted from how he’s sat, so his pecker is just hanging out on the bed. He looks at it angrily. It looks fine to him. It’s a _good pecker_. How dare Michael insult his pecker’s good name by suggesting it has anything less than a sterling bill of health.

“WHAT’S WRONG WITH MY PECKER,” Trevor roars, and lobs the sad hospital lunch tray beside his bed across the room, sending particles of green jello arcing through the air like a tiny Aurora Borealis.

Then he notices the tired-looking Hispanic man in a doctor’s coat in the doorway. Like the nurse before him, he doesn’t seem particularly moved by Trevor’s violent outbursts. Trevor eyes him warily as the man moves across the room, gingerly stepping over the lunch tray, to retrieve a disposable glove from a dispenser on the wall. He snaps it onto his hand and sends a spray of powder into the room.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with your pecker, Mr. Philips" says the man in a quiet, measured voice, “Dr. Ospino” from a glance at his nametag. “But it's my job to find out.”

Trevor pins him with a yellow-eyed glare for a long moment before coming to a decision. He sweeps his gown all the way out of the way and puffs up his chest a little bit.

“Okay doc, have at it. But I’m warning you—if I get a little _excited_ during the proceedings, that ain’t my fault and I ain’t paying you extra. You got it?”

Dr. Ospino sighs, and quietly hates his life.

\--

When Michael gets back from the hospital, it’s about 7pm and the house is empty. The house is emptier more often than not, lately. Sometimes it feels no different than before—when Amanda had taken the kids, and Michael was really alone in the house. But now it’s almost a little sadder, somehow. Everyone’s just gone their own way, no communication of where they’ve gone or when they’ll be back. Confident that no one will miss them.

There’s nothing on TV, and Michael wanders through the rooms of the house aimlessly, looking for something to occupy himself with. He already has one glass of scotch in him and the next is in his hand. He stops by Jimmy’s open door and his eye catches on a glint of light on glass. Jimmy’s bong is sitting out on the table. Giving a little glance around like someone might see him even though there’s no one in the house, Michael nudges open the door and walks inside. The bong’s been packed recently-ish, and Michael can see by the color it’s not cashed. He fishes his lighter out of his pocket.

It’s been awhile since Michael’s smoked a bong, and he’s glad no one’s around to see him while he reacquaints himself with the device. He coughs emphatically after he finally manages to get a good rip, then takes a big swig of scotch, which unfortunately goes down the wrong pipe and makes him cough even more. He takes his glass and wanders out into the hall, hoping a little pacing will help even out his breath and calm his stuttering heart.

Once he can breathe again, he really starts to feel it—a nice body high. He’s only done one rip but that old saying, “the more you cough the more you get off,” filters into his mind and he grins stupidly. He feels lighter, more relaxed than he has in ages, and he drifts into his bedroom. Sensations, temperatures feel different on his skin. He lies back on the comforter and rubs his hands over his stomach, luxuriating in the feeling of his skin against his hands, the material.

He remembers Trevor lying in this same place, this same position, just a few weeks ago.

“Your. Ass,” he’d said, or something else stupid like that, in a way that made Michael feel disgusted, disturbed, and, yeah, a little aroused. He unzips his pants and dips his hand down to cup his erection as he recalls the feeling of Trevor in the kitchen against his back, inhaling at the nape of his neck. It was that same feeling then—a sort of nauseated, nervous excitement, that his body interpreted as fear but is now caressing into a different shape through the guiding hands of weed-induced relaxation and arousal.

A rogue thought pops into his head, one that's never permitted without the aid of chemical relaxers, and he rolls over the bed to rifle through Amanda’s bedside table.

_Jackpot._ Michael fishes out his wife’s smallest vibrator from the very back of the drawer. It is dusty and neglected—wholly unlike the most recent addition to her collection, the Goliath, which stands proud and lube-shined and probably still warm atop her table, a small silicon monument to his ineffectualness as her lover. After giving it the stinkeye for a drunken moment, Michael gives in to pettiness and nudges it onto the floor, its girth wobbling like a fat black eel as it falls.

Michael palms the vibe (The Lil’ Tickler, it’s called, Michael notices with mild pique) and a small bottle of lube and heads to the bathroom to wash it off. The weed helps him become immersed in the small physical pleasures of his movements—washing the vibrator under the warm water of the sink, nudging the encrusted dust off with his thumb, coming back to the bed—without letting him think about what he’s doing, or why. He does think to shut the hallway door on his way back, though, checking it with his hip while he hums a tuneless hum, a medley of several different (possibly nonexistent) movie themes.

Michael takes a minute to consider the little device. It’s shaped like a finger making a kind of “come hither” motion, which makes him giggle for some reason. His thumb swipes the bottom and pushes an unseen button, and the resulting vibration makes him jump. He laughs at his own squeamishness, but his fingers are shaking just a little bit and his asshole is clenched tight. He downs the rest of his scotch, swallowing the melty ice cubes.

It’s not his fault that it’s The Townley Way to hold all his tension in his asshole. He’s always had a problem with hemorrhoids, ever since he was a teenager. His fuckin’ diet and anger management issues don’t help. Now that he’s older it’s even worse, and a stressful day on set can fuck his whole ecosystem up for a week.

His ass is a special, sacred place, he thinks, as he scoots out of his pants and underwear. He’s never understood how Trevor plays so fast and loose with his own. Not that Michael is complaining… he made good fucking use of that hole back in the day. His cock twitches to life at the memory, and if he weren’t drunk and stoned he’d be pretty pissed that that’s the kind of thought that gets him going. But whatever. Sex is sex is sex. He lies back on the bed and pulls at his dick almost thoughtfully, losing himself for a while in a sense memory of fucking Trevor over a motel couch.

_It was a bitterly cold night in North Yankton, but the heat in the motel was out of their control and on excruciatingly high. Trevor’d wanted to open the window to get some circulation, and was unhappy when Michael pointed out that they were in hiding and maybe_ shouldn't _have an open window into their spot. They’d gone at it like dogs before Trevor’d eventually acquiesced, and over the course of the evening they gradually lost items of clothes until they were both nude. And as things generally went with Trevor and nudity, it ended up with them fucking._

_It was so hot that they wordlessly figured out a way to fuck while also touching the least skin-to-skin possible. Trevor knelt on the couch, one knee up on the arm with his ass spread wide. Michael stood behind him, his fingers hovered lightly over the knot at the bottom of Trevor’s spine, so he could balance himself if he needed, but otherwise only connected ass-to-cock. They moved together wordlessly, a sweatily efficient machine of mutually assured pleasure, each in it for his own needs but cooperating for the benefit of all. He remembered Trevor’s hair, longer then, tied up in a messy rubber band on the top of his head. He remembered the tight, wet ring of Trevor’s ass, and the noises that came from deep in his throat when Michael pressed into him the right way._

Now, Michael squirts some lube onto his fingers and tells himself that that’s not what this is about. The gel is unnaturally cool on his hot skin, and the skin on the back of his neck prickles pleasantly at the sensation. He rubs it generously onto the little machine and tells himself that this is an experiment… no, a test of will. Yeah. Michael is about to prove to himself, Amanda, and everyone else that he’s a modern, sensitive man. Nowadays, women want guys who aren’t afraid to be a little feminine, like Fabien. He can’t help that times change. He’s gotta do his part, for his marriage. He can do Tree pose. He eats yogurt sometimes. He cries at the end of animated movies. And he can put stuff in his butt.

“I am a modern, sensitive man,” Michael says to the ceiling, and pushes the lubricated cylinder a little way into his hole.

He winces expectantly, but it’s actually not so bad. It feels… weird. Like he has to shit, kind of. Like mid-shit. But it isn’t terrible. He continues stroking himself and tries to think of sexy things—sexy things that specifically aren’t Trevor. He thinks about a particular porn video he likes, where a Poppy Mitchell look-alike in a Catholic school girl outfit gets fucked in the ass by a tattooed hunk. His body begins relaxing again as he jerks off, and he feels himself melting back into the comforter. He even gives his left nipple a few indulgent swipes before reaching back down to maneuver the Tickler a little farther in, where he thinks the mythical prostate might be.

Then he accidentally presses the vibrator button.

“FUCK,” Michael yelps, startled by the motion. He’d forgot it did that. It feels so weird, not completely pleasant, not completely awful. At the very least the vibrations feel _great_ in his balls. He takes his hands back up to his nipple and cock, the buzzing little machine held in place by his contracted rim.

His hips are more open now, and he’s thrusting lightly into his hand, and when he clenches he can feel the slender vibe brushing against something different, something really, _really_ nice. His mental porno is really starting to get going, but now it's also confused—addled by the weed and the mixup of his usual jack-off routine. Usually his mental point of view is of the one doing the fucking, but now in his mind’s eye, he’s the one on his back and it’s _Trevor_ between his legs. Only Trevor has the same bad wig on as the girl, and is... wearing the Catholic school girl outfit. In the shamelessness of arousal he forgets to be embarrassed, and he's too high to be repressed. He's getting into it. 

He's already close to the edge when he reaches down to adjust the position of the vibe again and somehow manages to activate a second, stronger setting. Suddenly he feels like he’s coming apart from the inside. The _fucking Tickler_ is touching something he didn't even know he had in him. He’s not even touching his cock when he comes, shouting “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK” at the top of his lungs and clawing onto the bedsheets for dear life.

“Michael? Honey, are you okay?!” Amanda bursts into the room with a frying pan in one hand, ready to enter the fray. When instead she sees her naked husband lying on the bed, covered in sweat with eyes like saucers, her old vibrator hanging out of his asshole, she lets out a huge sigh and closes the door behind her. Michael is barely aware that she’s even there, riding out the end of his orgasm with a feeling of ecstasy virtually indistinguishable from terror.

She walks over, lifts his stout leg by an ankle, and yanks the vibrator out of his ass, causing him to wince and roll over onto his side. She throws it in the trash before going to the bathroom to wash her hands.

“You know you’re supposed to use a _condom_ with that thing, asshole?” she calls out over the running sink. She can faintly hear what sounds like him moaning into a pillow.

“It makes it easier to clean. As is I’m just ditching it,” she says, wiping her hands and looking at the waste basket with distaste. She wishes she had a match she could toss in there for good measure.

She walks over to the bed and rolls him over. He smells like weed and booze. God, what a _lucky woman_ she is. She grabs his face between her perfectly manicured fingers, mushing his mouth into a stupid “o.”

“That better be the first time you’ve used one of my toys.”

He nods stupidly, and she lets him go. Then something in her demeanor changes, and she sits heavily on the side of the bed, silent.

Michael reaches out to put a hand on her knee, which she slaps off. She can tell from the corner of her eye that he has that pathetic puppy-dog look on, the one he makes when he knows he’s done something wrong but doesn’t know exactly what it is, so he can’t figure out the right lie to wriggle his way out of it.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he says slowly. “I should have… asked?”

“Damn straight you should have. ...But that's hardly the worst of our problems."

She fishes a scrap of paper out of her bra and shows it to him. Michael squints at it. It looks familiar, but he can’t place it.

“I found this when I was cleaning up in the kitchen,” she says, her voice wavering, and suddenly Michael knows exactly what it is. He thought he'd gotten all the pieces. But of course he'd managed to miss the most important one. 

“Do you want to explain to me why a pregnant girl's bloodwork is ripped up in my kitchen, Michael?"

Her eyes search his and she can _see_  the wheels spinning and spinning. He's trying to come up with a good excuse, but his mind is totally fried and before he can speak she’s shaking her head with tears in her eyes. He opens his mouth but she stops him.

“Stop. I can’t bear to hear another one of your excuses right now.” She stands up and goes to the door.

“I’m getting out of here for a while. I have to clear my head. And you… I don’t even know what you need to do.”

She makes to leave, then something stops her and she walks back to the bed. Michael reaches for her hand hopefully as she bends down... and grabs her massive vibrator off the floor. She clutches it to her chest, giving him one last accusing look, before exiting the room and eventually the house. 

Michael flops dejectedly back to his stomach, his body hanging half off the side of the bed. He feels a peculiar combination of buzzed, fucked out and miserable, each one enough to stop him from moving from this spot ever again. As he drifts off to a confused, tortured sleep, his eyes come to rest on what looks disturbingly like a puke stain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I thought I'd have this done in like May? THOSE WERE THE DAYS, RIGHT? Anyway, I'm back and here's the latest chapter. I got really tripped up at my inability to describe a hospital and just eventually gave up, so here's that. Surprising no one, the Michael butt dildo part came quite naturally. 
> 
> Also I think I fuck up tenses a few times in here which I HATE but I'm trying this whole present tense thing and I get confused when it's like, they're in the present tense but they're remembering something or thinking about something from before? I don't know.


End file.
